


Boat Allergy

by AnxiousCoffee (TheHallowedAngel)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Caretaker Sam Winchester, Early in Canon, Gen, Motion Sickness, Public Humiliation, Public Illness, Seasickness, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Vomiting, am i just fillings tags to feel more professional? absolutely, kind off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHallowedAngel/pseuds/AnxiousCoffee
Summary: “This is probably a record for you,” Sam snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. Dean seemed much less amused, glowering at him over the hand hovering over his mouth and nose.“Can it, Sam. This isn’t funny.”“Seriously, Dean. We’ve been on the ship for what, two hours? Normally you barf way sooner than this.”
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Boat Allergy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oshii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/gifts).



> A huge thanks to Oshii for beta reading this for me, and for being a massive support during the writing of this. There's hopefully a couple more things to come within the next week or so, including a sickfic for Lucifer, and few chapters of a big project I've been working on for a while. 
> 
> But seriously, though. Oshii has been a huge inspiration over the past few months. One of the best friends I could ever ask for ❤️❤️

Dean wavered heavily during the last few steps towards the railings, almost stumbling over his own feet twice and hitting the bars with enough force to nearly wind himself. Sam was quick to follow him, but didn’t get to his side until the first rush of cheap champagne and questionable steak hit the wild waters with a gurgling heave.

“Jesus, Dean.” Sam cringed away, shielding his eyes from the ocean spray with one hand and haphazardly placing the other on Dean’s shoulder. He ran it up and down in a small loop over the rise and fall of Dean’s upper back.

Dean cursed- or tried to, at least. The sound got lost in another gag, this time bringing up a bigger flood of booze and food. Sick clung to his lips and chin, dripping down onto his shirt, and tears began to well in his eyes as he retched again and again. He told himself that as soon as his stomach was empty, it would settle. That the spinning in his head was exactly that, just a trick of his mind that he could overcome if he really thought about it. Dean didn’t believe himself, though.

Sam, to his credit, stayed consistently unhelpful, too shocked to really offer much more comfort than lazy circles of his hand over the top of Dean’s spine. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help; he’d seen Dean in worse states, for sure, but the abruptness of all this had taken him by surprise.

It was just meant to be a quick case, a haunted cruise selling tacky jump-scares and telling tales about made-up ghosts frequenting the galley, pantry and corridors. All of the lore had accidentally managed to summon a real phantom. They even had a solid lead on where to find the object the spirit was bound to, which rarely happened.

Moments ago, Dean had been entertaining the attention of three of the younger women on the cruise, each claiming themselves to be completely single and ‘ _totally into him_ ’. Sam had been biting back the urge to scoff at them all, fully intending to drag Dean to their room the second his plate was clear and pull his focus to the case. But Dean had gone from a playful blush to a worrying grey colour in the span of a few seconds, excusing himself with a squeal of metal chair legs on the polished wood floor and a poorly contained gag.

At least the experience would serve as fresh blackmail material.

When Dean pulled away from the railings, panting and red in the face, Sam regarded him with a bemused smile on his face. Dean wiped a sleeve over his mouth.

“This is probably a record for you,” Sam snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. Dean seemed much less amused, glowering at him over the hand hovering over his mouth and nose.

“Can it, Sam. This isn’t funny.”

“Seriously, Dean. We’ve been on the ship for what, two hours? Normally you barf way sooner than this.”

Dean heaved into his hand, eyeing the water with stern eyes. He took a few moments to breathe through his nose, not looking at Sam until his stomach settled back to the absent churning.

“Can you please just stop talking about this? I swear to god I will puke on your fucking shoes.” With the hand still in front of his face, a lot of the edge was lost from Dean’s voice.

“Big words for the guy who can barely stay upright. You ready to go back to our cabin, or do you want to give the girls an encore?”

Dean shot Sam a glare, but took off stumbling his way back inside all the same. He only made it to the door before Sam had to loop an arm around his back and hold him up.

“I can walk on my own, damn it!” 

Sam couldn’t help but compare him to a snapping chihuahua, barking like crazy because it didn’t know what else to do. Dean didn’t try and shake him off, but he was certainly glaring holes into the side of Sam’s head.

“Sure you can, Dean,” he muttered, but made no efforts to let him go. Sam couldn’t deny that the waters were getting pretty rough now, so he could understand Dean having balance issues

The walk to their room was perilous. Every step Dean took felt like it was punctuated by a sway of the ship. The boat always seemed to dip in the opposite direction for which Dean was prepared, like it knew it had Dean in its grasp and was trying to finish him off.

“Why the hell did I let you drag me onto this damn thing?”

“You’re the one that caught hold of the case, Dean, you can’t blame me.” Sam propped Dean up against the wall to fish around in the pockets of his jacket for their key card. Producing it, he swiped it down the lock and managed to grab Dean again just as he made a dive towards the floor. There was a railing on the wall, but Dean seemed too busy holding his gut to grab it, going the same shade of pale he had out on deck. 

Sam noticed. “Shit, just hold on!” he pleaded.

Sam fumbled with the door, trying to balance his brother and turn the handle proving a little more tedious that he thought. He managed to swing it open in time for Dean to pry himself out of Sam’s arms and lurch for the en suite just inside of the door.

There was the sound of a toilet lid hitting the system, the sound of knees hitting the floor, and then the sound of a guttural heave. Sam shut the door with a soft click and then rounded into the bathroom, watching Dean arch over the bowl and choke up a watery slurry that painted the back of the bowl a sickening beige colour.

With a sigh, he eased himself down into a crouch behind Dean, working his hands into the muscles of his back. Dean seemed to relax at the contact. Some of the tension in his body eased, allowing a short breath before the next turn of his stomach had him burying his head in the toilet. Sam watched Dean’s drip on the edge of the bowl tighten and drain the blood from his knuckles.

“You should have talked me out of it, Sam,” the words echoed inside of the bowl, punctuated by the sound of Dean spitting out who knows what. His voice dripped with exhaustion and nausea.

“You wouldn’t have listened, Dean. Once you get an idea in your head there’s no reasoning with you. You’re like a- a bloodhound, or something.”

Dean didn’t answer, opting instead to dry heave and spit out a mouthful of bitter saliva. With a huff, he reached up to flush away his shame. Dean turned to look at Sam over his shoulder for as long as he dared, before he shook off Sam’s hands and flopped back against the wall. Sam had to shift his weight onto the heels of his feet and brace a hand on the floor behind him to avoid getting knocked onto his ass, but Dean didn’t show any sign that he was even a little sorry about it. Served Sam right for being a smartass.

“Did you pack any Dramamine?” Sam asked, sitting back against the wall behind him. The bathroom was small, but so long as he kept his knees tight to his chest they both fit fine.

Dean shrugged before he answered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and then wiping his hand on his jeans.

“I don’t know. It’ll be in one of the side pockets of the big duffel bag if we have any.” 

Dean’s voice was hushed, and rougher than normal. Throwing up always did that to him, though; always tore his throat to shreds and left him hoarse for days.

Sam gave a quick nod, letting worried eyes slip over Dean one last time before he clambered to his feet and stepped out into the main room.

Two queens took up most of the room, covered with matching cream and red sheets and finished with an ugly looking collection of pillows, with a deep grey rug and various pieces of wooden furniture filling most of the rest of it. Folded on the end of each bed were three towels, decreasing in size, and a fresh bar of soap. 

The room itself was the same cream as the bedding, decorated with a red patterned trim running around the top of the walls. All of the fixtures appeared to be oak- a large dresser, a wardrobe, and a small cabinet to the wall-side of each bed. Grey furnishings brought the whole thing together, topping the wooden bed posts and dressing the furniture in various ways. There was no TV, something that would definitely piss Dean off, but there was a quaint little radio sat atop the drawers and a lamp to each bed.

It was definitely one of the better places they’d had the pleasure of staying while working a case, but not the best. It looked perfect at first glance, but as Sam bent over to sort through Dean’s bag, he noticed that a few faded stains were dotted about the top sheet. The carpet- an off-white colour -was rather patchy in places, worn by years of being walked over and getting picked at. The curtains, the shade of which probably meant to match the red of the bedding, were thin, and let far too much light in.

Sam told himself not to think too hard about any of that, though he had honestly gotten to the point where he just didn’t care anymore, anyway. The quality wasn’t really what mattered when your finances were entirely fraudulent and you never knew how long you were going to be staying in a town. It just had to be cheap, easily accessible, and have at least one exit.. Breakfast, too, was always a bonus.

With a small noise of triumph, he felt the cool back of a strip of pills touch the tips of his fingers, and from the pocket he pulled the motion sickness medicine and examined it for a date. They were good until March of next year.

Before Sam even had the chance to zip the bag back up, though, he heard Dean straining through another round of heaves, though he didn’t seem to be getting anything substantial up anymore. Dean would retch and then cough, every so often even getting a couple of breaths in before he retched again. Sam waited until it calmed down again before he walked back in, smacking the flat side of the strip against the palm of his hand.

Sam had fished a bottle of water out of the main part of the bag before going back to the washroom.

“There’s no point, it’ll just come back up,” Dean rasped, and he gagged into his mouth as if just to prove his statement. He’d found a towel since Sam had left, and he was using it to wipe the lower half of his face.

“It’s still worth a try, Dean.” Sam bent ever so slightly to hold out the pills and water.

With a heavy sigh, Dean reluctantly reached up to swipe them out of Sam’s hands.

Dean popped two pills out of their bubbles and threw them into the back of his mouth. He chased them down with a swig of water before he dropped both the strip and the bottle against the ground next to him.


End file.
